He took her hand, so much smaller than his, and just beginning to soften with the advance of age. Yet there was nothing weak or fragile about his mother, even in her sorrow.
“I have changed,” he said. “I’ve learned things in the wake of losing babbo.”
“A lesson from Signorina Holme,” his mother noted.
His surprise flared, but could anything have escaped his mother’s keen awareness? Firmly, he said, “There’s no blame for her. Know this, and take no action against her.”
“When you came to me and asked me to take responsibility for Maria and Ellie’s education, I knew. I had to trust that my son was a man, a man who could make his own choices. And in tasking me with Signorina Holme’s employment, I saw that you would not harm her.”
“I care about Cecilia, mamma.” Saying it aloud to his mother made the truth resonate within him. “She has my heart.”
His mother raised one eyebrow. “Do you have hers?”
“I thought I did.” Her face haunted him, hopeless and sorrowful as she ended their affair. “She is convinced that we cannot be together—in any way.”
“What are you convinced of, figlio mio?”
He let go of his mother’s hand and walked to the framed portrait on the wall. It was of him and his sisters, painted shortly before he left for Eton. Maria was in her simple white frock as she clung to the leg of his breeches, and Ellie was snug in a cradle.
His sisters were now on the verge of becoming young women, and he had left boyhood behind. Every moment brought new understanding, new maturity.
“A lesson changes its meaning depending on whoever is receiving it,” he said as he stared at the portrait, “and that includes how I interpret what babbo told me.”
Turning back to his mother, he said firmly, “To me that farthing means that in loving whom I want, I’m telling the world that love is more important than artificial social barriers. Love surpasses everything.”
“Love,” his mother said, her brows climbing higher.
“Yes, mamma,” he answered levelly. “L'amo. I love her. And if she’ll have me, I want to be her husband.”
Energy filled him to speak it aloud. He hadn’t allowed himself to think of the depths of his feelings for Cecilia and what their future might bring, but there was nothing to fear. Precisely the opposite. He was never stronger, never more powerful than when he gave full rein to his emotions and led with his heart.
“She has taught me so much, mamma. She helped me learn what it was to be unafraid.”
His mother clicked her tongue. “Do you want a governess or do you want a wife?”
“I want a partner, an equal. She’s all of those things, and more. So much more.”
His mother walked to him. She possessed an imposing beauty, yet beneath the cool hauteur of her exterior, one glimpsed a tempestuous, passionate being.
“If it is amore,” his mother said, “vero amore, then that is all I truly wish for you, figlio mio. And when the time comes, any whey-faced English family who will not wed their sons to my daughters, how do you say, can go hang.”
The pond’s surface reflected the midnight sky, a shard of moon floating atop an expanse of liquid ebony. At this late hour, the water was no doubt hold enough chill to steal Cecilia’s breath, but that would presume that she had enough breath left after hours of weeping.
Before walking out to the pond tonight, she’d glanced at herself in the small mirror perched atop her washstand. She’d never been one of those women who cried prettily, with a single crystalline tear tracing down a smooth cheek. Instead, her nose was red, her eyes were swollen, and her entire face was mottled.
It only meant that she possessed strong feelings. Some days she was grateful to feel as much as she did, but tonight, with her heart open and ragged, she wished she could have been the porcelain ornament her father had wanted her to be.
Yet denying how she felt about Owen, and what it meant to give him up, was a grave and terrible wrong. He had been—no, he was the best part of her life because he’d rejoiced in every part of her.
She would have to learn to live with the pain of not having him as hers. She might survive, but it would be a hard and barren existence.
There was no breeze tonight, and the pond’s polished surface remained unbroken. Had she the physical strength, she’d take one final swim in it, regardless of the water’s temperature. But she was limp with exhaustion, so she remained seated on the banks, immersing herself in memories of her and Owen frolicking in the water, and how they’d spoken of their innermost selves in the secret depths of a summer night.
She ought to get up and leave, go back inside and prepare herself for the next chapter. Yet she remained where she was, too tired and too weighted with sorrow to do anything beyond wishing that the world was a different place, and that history had been kinder. They were futile wishes, but that didn’t stop her from making them.
She stiffened at the sound of the rustling grass behind her, then moved to rise.
“Don’t go,” Owen said. He approached slowly, as if wary that she might bolt like a doe. “Can we just…sit here, together? I won’t do anything without your express permission.”
What was one more injury in an already mortally wounded heart? She lowered herself back to the grass, and after a moment, he eased down beside her. The night kept him mostly in shadow, but she knew his form anywhere—especially in the dark.
“Didn’t expect to find you out here,” he murmured into the silence.
“This place is special,” she said softly. “It’s where I first saw you when you had returned to Tarrington House as the new duke.”
“Spying on me as I swam.” There was a smile in his voice.
“It wasn’t spying. I accidentally saw you.”
“And didn’t draw attention to yourself,” he teased, “or look away. A myth in reverse—Diana watching Acteon.”
Only when her cheeks ached did she realize that she, too, was smiling. It was always so good between them, so comfortable and full of potential.
Her smile fell away as bitter truths confronted her.
“That myth didn’t end well for Acteon,” she said quietly. “Torn apart by his own hounds.”
“Cecilia—”
“I have something for you.” She held out a folded piece of paper before he could say anything more and completely obliterate her with his beautiful soul. “It’s for the duchess, in fact, but if you could give it to her, I’d be most grateful.”
He took the paper from her. “What is this?”
“My resignation.” She had written the letter in the gamekeeper’s unlocked cottage, surrounding herself in wonderful, tormenting memories.
He hissed, as if in pain. “No.”
“I cannot remain here any longer.” It was an agony to keep speaking, to tell him what she had to, but there was no alternative.
“Sir Kenneth is gone,” he objected. “The whole party left this afternoon. There’s no danger.”
“The danger is living beneath your roof, knowing that you’re so close, but completely out of reach. It’s like living just beyond the boundaries of Paradise, looking in and seeing what’s been lost. I’m a strong woman,” she continued, her voice catching, “but not strong enough to endure that kind of pain.”
“Where will you go?”
“It will be far from here, I know that much.”
His hands were suddenly on her shoulders as he knelt in front of her. The shadows concealed his expression, but even in the dark she felt the intensity of his gaze.
“Marry me,” he said, those two words reverberating with strength. When she said nothing, only stared at him in stunned wordlessness, he went on, “Be my wife, and we’ll never have to be apart.”
Her heartbeat was a thunderstorm within her. “Impossible.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said fiercely. “It can be you and me forever, all you have to do is say yes.”
Hope was a terrible, monstrous creature w
ithin her, threatening to devour her. “You’re so young,” she said, mostly to remind her of all the obstacles between them. “You haven’t truly dedicated yourself to the bride hunt and finding your perfect duchess.”
“I’ve already met my perfect duchess,” he said hotly, “and she’s right here in front of me.”
God, how she wanted so much to reach for what he offered. Yet— “What about your mother and sisters? The scandal of marrying the governess? There will be a scandal. If the Whelans talk—”
“Whelan and his wife will be made to understand that if they don’t keep silent, I’ll buy up their debts and dun them into oblivion.”
She gaped at him. “Would you do that?”
“I’m a duke.” His smile was pure, cold arrogance. “I’ll do as I bloody well please.”
Pressing her fingers to her lips, she said in half horror, half admiration, “You inhabit that role so completely now.”
“You gave me that strength. And I will use it to face anyone with how I feel about you.”
“What of the duchess? Neapolitan mothers are fierce in defending their children.”
“And their sons are fierce in defending the women they love.”
She inhaled sharply. Surely she hadn’t heard him correctly? Surely his love couldn’t be hers, could it?
“None of it matters,” he went on. “All of my oaths and promises and vows mean nothing unless…” He swallowed. “Unless you love me, too.”
Shaking, she brought her hands up to cup his face, feeling the delicious abrasion of his stubble, and the dampness of his cheeks. He was kindhearted, and loyal, and both his mind and his heart contained profound depth. And she was important to him, truly important.
“I do love you, Owen. I love you beyond reason.”
He kissed her, fiercely, and she kissed him back, losing herself in the passion that rose so readily between them.
“That’s all that matters,” he rumbled when they broke apart to breathe. “Everything else are details we can overcome together. And I’ve already spoken to my mother.”
Aghast, Cecilia stared at him. “Why has she not run me off the estate?”
“Because she knows that where you go, I go.”
Wrapped around her, his arms were strong and secure and sheltering. They would hold her up when she needed support, and be there when she stood on her own.
“Your dream of the school belongs to you,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck, “but I would love to help transform it from a dream to a reality.”
“Oh, yes, Owen.” She pressed her lips to his, trembling with unbound joy. Still, she could not help but ask, “Are you certain? That it’s me you want for your wife?”
His smile flashed. “I didn’t want an education in pleasure for any other woman, Cecilia. I wanted to learn how to please you.”
She leaned close, breathing him in, this wondrous man who had, with his courage and passion, gifted her the world.
“You’ve done it.” She pressed her lips to his. “Never has a teacher been so pleased with their student.”
“They say that education is a lifelong process,” he said between hungry kisses. “I’m ready to learn everything you can teach me.”
She had never believed anyone could fully accept and celebrate who she truly was, or that she could find someone to believe in her dream as much as she did. Owen was all those things, and so much more. He was the finest person she knew. There was no one like him.
“We’ll teach each other,” she murmured. “Our first lesson as an engaged couple starts now.”
* * *
The End.
Looking for more appallingly hot Regency romance by Eva Leigh?
* * *
Check out Would I Lie to the Duke, featuring a dirty talking, sexually submissive duke and the woman who brings him to his knees…
Also by Eva Leigh
The Union of the Rakes:
My Fake Rake
Would I Lie to the Duke
Waiting For a Scot Like You
* * *
The London Underground:
From Duke Till Dawn
Counting on a Countess
Dare to Love a Duke
* * *
The Wicked Quills of London:
Forever Your Earl
Scandal Takes the Stage
Temptations of a Wallflower
About the Author
Eva Leigh is a romance author who writes novels chock-full of determined women and sexy men. She enjoys baking, spending too much time on the Internet, and listening to music from the '80s. Eva and her husband live in Central California.
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evaleighauthor.com
The Duke Makes Me Feel…
Adriana Herrera
Chapter One
London, 1879
“I need to speak to Marena Baine.” What was it about men who could not take no for an answer?
“Sir, I’ve already explained to your footman that the potency tinctures are back-ordered,” she informed the man who had entered her shop. The authority in his voice—and the immediate request to speak to the owner—told Marena he was probably the employer of the extremely persistent individual she’d just sent on his way. This was tiresome, and she was not in a mood to placate men with too much money and little manners.
It had all started when she’d given a sample of her tinctures to one of her most faithful patrons after she’d complained that her husband had been unusually deficient in their amorous pursuits. After a couple of tries, the earl in question had taken to the mixture of ginseng, ginger, and white oak bark. Within weeks, half of the ton was trampling into her little apothecary in the hither end of Haymarket, demanding she sell them the “miraculous elixir.” It had been a boon for business, but this level of demand had its drawbacks. Such as aristos interfering with her end-of-the-day routine.
“Potency tinctures?” the man finally asked, his voice hoarse with what sounded like suppressed humor. “I can assure you I don’t require any assistance with my stamina.” He said the last word with obvious amusement.
She almost blurted, “That’s what they all say,” but even if her current mood had her feeling uncharacteristically pugnacious, Marena was never reckless. Attending to the maladies of London society’s upper crust meant one had to cultivate a monastic level of patience and master absolute emotional disengagement. Marena had sturdy walls protecting her from the harsh words, condescension, and ludicrous requests tossed daily in her direction. A man trampling into her shop and making demands, unfortunately, did not even achieve the label of being remarkable.
She gathered the final reserves of her patience and turned around to explain one last time that she did not have tinctures to sell. But the words died in her throat. She recognized that mouth and those entrancing blue eyes.
“There you are,” he said pleasantly, his eyes fixed on her, a small smile tugging at his lips, as if they’d been playing a game of hide-and-seek.
What was the Duke of Linley doing in her shop?
“Could you fetch Ms. Baine for me, darling?” he asked idly, his gaze roaming over the shelves on the walls which were lined with neatly labeled ceramic canisters. He appeared to be completely unconcerned, as if he were guaranteed to get anything and everything he asked for.
This man was truly testing her restraint. The nerve. She was nobody’s darling. She didn’t care who he was. This was the plight of dealing with London’s high society—one could not toss them out on their ear for behaving insolently.
“Sir, I—”
“Tell her Arlo Kenworthy would like a word, won’t you?”
She felt unsettled by his presence, and not with the mix of irritation and exhaustion that seemed be an essential part of any visit from the nobility. No, this was a flutter in her belly and a warmth in her chest that truly had no place while she was alone with a duke. She was about to open her mouth to tell him she was aware of
who he was, but the fact that he used his family name, and not his title, gave her pause. In her experience, dukes, did not miss an opportunity to assert their importance.
Well-bred in England meant specific things, and brawn and vitality were not typically what she associated with the expression. But this man was a presence. Even his hair was arresting. She’d never seen that particular shade of brown, almost like burnt copper, making for a striking contrast with his piercing blue eyes. A face that demanded a second glance, as her mother would say.
He was so tall his head almost reached the frame of the door. And he had the shoulders and chest of a man who worked with his hands, not one who spent his time in the House of Lords. But that was only one of the reasons that made Arlo Kenworthy one of the most talked-about peers. One could somehow resist falling under the spell of his presence, and perhaps even defend against the effects of his strapping physique. But that mouth was where the battle with all common sense was lost. Sinful. Absolutely sinful. He was almost too much to take in at once. And what could the man possibly want with her?
She’d seen him at a salon organized by Lady Barbara Smith Bibichon, where he passionately spoke his support for women’s enfranchisement. He’d impressed her, but she never imagined she’d see him again, and certainly not in her shop. Not only did he look to be in exceptionally good health, but even if he did need her services, he did not seem the type to do his own shopping.
He cleared his throat, bringing her musings to a stop. “Am I to wait much longer?”
That haughty tone should’ve irritated her, but instead prompted an irritating pulsing in her chest. After years of dealing with all kinds of ill-mannered patrons, Marena had trained herself to maintain a veneer of placid detachment. It usually worked, but occasionally there would be someone who would walk in and pique her curiosity.
Duke I’d Like to F… Page 32